


Edification of the Harlequin

by SELIchan



Category: Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
Genre: M/M, Oh god, i am so sorry this was not the lesson ap lit was supposed to teach me, joseph conrad deserves better, yep i really am writing heart of darkness porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SELIchan/pseuds/SELIchan
Summary: "Ah, he talked to you of love!" "It wasn't what you think." Except when it was.This is my big takeaway from AP Lit. My deepest sympathies to all who read.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this you probably feel the same way I felt as I wrote this. AP Lit teacher, fellow students, and Joseph Conrad, I am sorry. Also it doesn't get spicy till chapter 2 so stick with me.

The harlequin stumbled upon Kurtz's camp on accident. Really, it was. For two years he'd meandered about the African countryside. His only guide was the great glittering river and the residencies of the natives which were novel at first, but in time faded to mere anthills in the lawn of African landscape. He had an uncomplicated mind with no delusions of grandeur; if he could only explore some new bit of land to have to himself, even if only in his mind, this was pleasure enough. For entertainment he'd kept a book on sailing which satisfied him plenty.

There were some troubling matters, of course. He'd gotten quite adept at foraging and trading for food but his clothes were ravaged by the weather. His shoes were but nonexistent. And there was that matter of company. One can only talk to oneself for so long without going mad- or at that point, is one mad? Are mad people self-aware of their madness? This was a conundrum that the Russian lad pondered over time and time again while tramping through the woodland, and about as complex as his thoughts went. He near fancied himself a scholar on days like these. Practically a philosopher. But all that changed the day he met Kurtz. 

He first took notice of the emissary after hearing the familiar spurting of gunfire. It wasn't aimed at him; no, it was at one of the natives. He was quite familiar with the people, enough to feel sorry they were shot at, but the lightning bolts put a wonderful feeling of homesickness in the pit of his belly. He felt compelled to investigate. The yellow rays of the sun slashing through the sky made the Russian lad squint as he made out the shape of the great castle amidst the anthills. So there it was- a white man's house. It wasn't a mere hut but a house, with real walls, slatted roof, and windows, however crude given the limited resources. 

"Hullo?" the Russian lad called out. English was the most common language in these parts, not counting the native tongues which were both incredibly numerous and far too complicated and foreign to learn. And when a response came back-

"Who goes there?" the Russian had never felt so grateful to the English crew for teaching him the language. 

"I am a sailor!" the Russian cried out into the bushes. "And you?"

A bald head awash with a garish orange light appeared. "Kurtz," the head said. His voice was powerful and, as he came out from behind some foliage, it was evident the man was too. Great sloping shoulders led to a trunk of a torso. That great bald head of his was perfectly round and reflected the glint of the sunlight, an orange orb round his head. 

The Russian gaped for a half-second. For one of the first times of his life that he could recall, he was rendered speechless. Then, he regained his composure. "Are you English?" he asked, the first question that came to mind. The great man- Kurtz- nodded. 

"I am. I have been sent by the Company to collect ivory for distribution." The man's very voice was arresting. Deep and oaky, it sent a shiver through the soul. It was a grave voice; one that signaled the coming of profound and momentous things. And, as if the thought was just occurring to him, he paused. "And who are you?"

The Russian felt his cheeks warm and his mouth open in spite of himself. He couldn't help but spill his entire life story out to this man, this total stranger. Perhaps it was the years spent in isolation; perhaps it was the man himself. But he found himself blathering about the Russian school, the runnings away, and the English ship. "I did reconcile myself with the archbishop, in the end!" he found himself insisting, over and over again. He couldn't stop his mouth. All the while, the Kurtz fellow listened to him, a languid smile atop stern lips. After a little while, the Russian faltered and the grin on his face wilted, as if he realized for how long he'd been talking. 

"I understand," Kurtz broke in. "I used to sail too, though now I much prefer to stay here. So you are not from the Company. Here. Sit, and I will tell you how I became involved with this damned ivory business."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just super tropey porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He meets Marlow in the next chapter! Also this chapter isn't done but who the fuck is gonna read this either now or in the future lol

The harlequin got to know the others quite well, at least by sight. Kurtz spoke well, and often; when the Russian wasn’t too enraptured to speak he learned to hamper his tongue through will. That great emissary of light wasn’t meant to be spoken over, and his words weren’t to be taken lightly. He learned a great many things, too, about life. Kurtz spoke about the Company and Ivory. Kurtz spoke about his Intended and his beautiful African mistress who he showered with gifts to adorn herself with. Kurtz spoke about the Light of Civilization and the Sword of Justice that accompanies the Torch. (All with capitals for emphasis- in his mind, at least.) And the Russian drank it all up. 

So the days went by. 

Then one day, as the Russian was laying out his pallet to sleep, Kurtz's face appeared by the doorway. "Come in," he said. Commanded. Kurtz didn't speak like any ordinary man. The Russian nodded and bobbed his way up. "Love makes a man do funny things," Kurtz said. This was his way. There was no introduction; he needed to get his thoughts out somehow, and the harlequin was the most convenient vessel. "My Intended back home," by his Intended he meant his wife, the Russian had learned earlier. His wife had nothing to do, he also gathered, with his African mistress. "is troubling me. Not even her presence but the mere thought of her. Have you feelings of guilt like this? That you're betraying your love from thousands of miles off? Well I do. And I don't think it makes me a good man, but I can't fathom why. Oh, blast it! how irrational love is!" 

"I wouldn't know, sir," the Russian ventured. Kurtz blinked as if just realizing he had an audience. 

"Have you never loved?" 

He shook his head, wide-eyed. 

"It's the most wonderful, terrible thing in the world. It feels like your heart is being ripped apart and sewn back together at the same time. And when you're making love..." Kurtz's eyes glimmered as he talked, a rare moment of gentleness. "Why, it's heaven on earth. Now obviously there's the initial tensions, the kissing and petting and so on. And all of it is lovely but when you sink into your woman and her warmth wraps around you..." He took a slow drag of a pipe that the Russian has never been permitted to try. The Russian moved closer, enraptured. Talk of lovemaking from any other man might be vulgar and crude but it sounded like poetry coming from the lips with the deep and hypnotizing voice. 

What happened next felt like a dream. The Russian shifted closer, absolutely engrossed. Then Kurtz looked down at him. Their eyes met. A striking sensation passed through the sailor; he felt a strange sort of persuasive jolt tugging him towards the older man. And looking into Kurtz's eyes, the Russian knew that he had felt it too. And so- instinctively- the harlequin moved closer, following that jolt. In a matter of seconds he found himself nearly nose-to-nose with that emissary, his god. The harlequin could smell the cigarettes on Kurtz’s beard, could practically taste the homebrew on his lips. And even this didn’t turn him off entirely- rather the opposite: he was arrested. Then Kurtz leaned down and the Russian gave in. He closed his eyes and let his lips meet Kurtz’s.

He’d kissed before. This was nothing like those other times, but he had no reason to expect it would be at all similar. The girls back home were flighty things. Their soft mouths would teasingly linger for a half second- it was the excitement of having kissed a sailor.

This was not a soft flighty thing- there was something primal, almost antediluvian in the way that Kurtz kissed. 

Kurtz tasted of dirt and alcohol and tobacco. His lips were chapped and a little rough but the harlequin didn’t mind. He was momentarily distracted when he heard small pants, the sound of a dog or some needy animal- but realized that he was making those sounds. 

When they broke for air, Kurtz swore softly. The word hung in the air – a filthy, beguiling thing that enraptured him. 

Then Kurtz began to strip off his clothing and the harlequin felt his heart stop. Being a sailor he was no stranger to the nude masculine figure. And while he professed being a stranger to love, he had experienced the act of it with the girls at brothels and so forth. But there was something altogether otherworldly about this experience that made his heart leap into his throat and strangle the words right from it. The Russian found himself unable to tear his eyes from the sight of Kurtz peeling off his trousers to reveal lean legs, of the way Kurtz's shoulder muscles moved under skin as he shrugged off his shirt. He almost felt invasive and annoying by repeating those motions himself even though he couldn't figure out another way to interpret Kurtz's words. Some hypothetical, perhaps? a great metaphor? He couldn't help but feel self-conscious of his coltish limbs, scrawny from the malnourishment years in the jungle afforded him.


End file.
